Guilt
by Tridee
Summary: A snippet of a story concerning a man who carries a great guilt, but no memories of how it was incurred, and another who seeks to cleanse the world of the guilty, and deems the first man clean. So perfectly free of wrongdoing, in fact, that the man becomes a note of hope that creates discord in his world of horrors. Not even so much as a first chapter; just a free piece of writing.


A sharp pain seared across his lower back. His body contracted around the fierce, burning line, steps faltering, eyes watering, breath expelled in one sudden rush. His mind froze as he slipped clumsily on the metal walkway, then snapped suddenly back into terrified life. The dulled chrome of the building reflected tenebrous shadows that shifted vaguely, lazily, as he ran, always at his side. His blood was drumming in his veins. Every pounding step was a stay of execution, every ragged inhale another taste of life.

He fled. A flash of movement flickered in the corner of his eye, making him startle and veer to the side, turning blindly around a dark corner. Forcing his lungs to keep on expanding, contracting, his heart thundering like a looming storm front, bristling with the lightning that shot like ice and fire through his blood.

Through the background hum of speeders and distant conversation, over the sound of his own heart and steps and breaths, he listened, every nerve trembling. He slowed for a second at the absence of sound, thoughts mired with confusion. He looked up abruptly, suddenly petrified of an ambush, and began to skid to a stop, to put his back to the wall. The echoes fell out of step. He inhaled sharply, the air scouring his throat like strong liquor, and twisted back forward to run, terror twisting and writhing in his gut. Electricity pumped from his heart to his feet, lending his muscles the energy to contract and release, driving him forwards in a sudden burst. The overshadowing bulks of the buildings on both sides menaced him, confining him to one, narrow path. Straight forwards. They towered far beyond him, blocking out the sky, and the light.

A narrow strip of luminescence revealed the alleyway ahead as it narrowed in his eyes, struggling to breathe, frozen between looking behind and the horror of his pursuer. He ran. The darkness cloaked him like a smothering gas, wrapping itself around his throat and weighing down his limbs. He could hear the high wheezes in the top of his mouth, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop. The piercing ache of the wound on his back drove his legs to move, the memory of a flashing blade and a cold face spurred his mind to focus. He didn't- Did he deserve this? The Executioner hunted the guilty. All were guilty under his gaze. Even as shame and remorse joined the terror in his gut, twisting into a maelstrom, he forced himself to run faster, tears breaking out from between his crinkled eyelids and slipping like slivers of silver-shining light to fall to the dark ground.

He had tried. He had tried so hard. He didn't- His lungs burned like he was breathing lava, and it was getting hard to see in the murk, through his tears. The echo of footsteps behind him seemed deafening, steady where his stuttered, ceaseless in their onslaught. He had tried. His face contorted as he dug deep into himself and wrenched fistfuls from his core, using them to fuel his motion, throwing himself around a corner, where a faint light diffused into the alleyway. He dashed forwards, mind fixed on the promise of open space, then froze on a precipice.

The city rose above and fell below into infinity. Above, lights shimmered through the mist. Below, the streets were shrouded with grime and smog.

Regular steps reverberated behind him. His breath quivered from his throat. A rush of flames stormed through him, stealing the air from his lungs, and he cast his eyes desperately about him. A narrow metal access spire rose from the edge of the walkway, which extended out above the abyss. The feeling of cold air shifting over his burn gave him the impulse to bolt suddenly forwards, launching himself clumsily, helplessly, at the frame. He clutched it, hauled himself up one chilled, cutting beam at a time, ears filled with the clanking and shifting of the structure under his weight. He dragged himself up onto the platform at the top, and his muscles gave up. He collapsed, trembling like jelly on a platter. He breathed, shallow, mucus catching in his throat. Hope rose like a question from his belly at the near silence. As his breathing calmed, his heartbeat slowed.

In the quiet they left behind, he could hear soft, regular breaths, and the whisper of fabric caught in the wind. The question died. Lead eased its way through his body, but did nothing to stop his shivering, just weighing down his feet as he struggled up on his hands and knees. One last burn of effort, desperately trying to stand, to run, and only inching forwards, tears streaming down his face, his nose full of their salt and his sweat. He was too tired. Too- He couldn't- he couldn't ever, ever not. His body screamed as he gripped the railing and drew himself wearily to his feet. He turned, slowly, and looked up. The ghosts of light from far above tremored on the edges of his blue eyes. Before him stood a man in loose black clothing, a gleaming cylinder gripped in one gloved hand, all of him appearing as a cloak drawn around the icy intensity of his yellow eyes. Time seemed suddenly slow. The man shifted, began to take a step, and, heart in his throat, he recoiled, stumbling backwards. Over the edge.

He fell. Time sped up again.

His stomach lurched, his hands extending uselessly, reaching upwards for aid.

They were caught. He looked up in uncomprehending fear, suspended entirely by the warm grip of leather-clad hands around his own. Blue met yellow. Something strange shifted where it shouldn't shift, in the back of his head, like an itch that he couldn't scratch. He shifted uncomfortably, then froze rigid as he swung over the city depths. He could feel something. Something slick, and foul, like crude oil, leaking into his head. He shuddered with nausea, repressing the urge to vomit, now desperate for the growing pressure in his head to ease, but staying frozen.

He could feel the shape of the intrusion, the imprint of another mind. He could feel an acrid sadness, and an endless ocean of rage, spun with blinding crimson threads of bitterness and hatred. The mind was crude and animalistic, roughly bound together with chains of purpose, but he could see- That sadness. He could taste it on his tongue, where it combined with the bloody taste of pain as the pressure built to the point of agony, and he'd have screamed if he could still control his own mouth, mentally writhing and burning with tears. But he did not pull away. He did not resist. Here was a Judge, and he was guilty.

The pressure receded. The hands raised him up onto the platform, and set him down, as though he weighed no more than a child. Unconsciously, he continued to meet those yellow eyes with his own, waiting for judgement. His fear had faded into a strange, keening light that suffused his being, steadfast, whatever would come.

The man turned, clothes blending into the shadowed city.

He walked away.

He was left in shock, too shattered to even watch the other man descend from the spire and disappear into the night.


End file.
